


All's Well That Ends Well (Lagom): An Epilogue

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [24]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Destruction, Dogs, F/M, Fluff, Honeymoon, Humor, Kids, Marriage, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Pregnancy, Teenagers, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes. Basil peed on Tom.”</p><p>“So, I heard.”</p><p>“Why did we get him a dog when he’s leaving?”</p><p>“Because I’m a push over,” I remind her, kissing her on the cheek as I pass by her to get to the fridge. “How are the Hiddlestons?”</p><p>“Peed upon and out a vase, a few light bulbs, and an antique lamp your daughter thinks she’s got enough money to replace.”</p><p>“I doubt she does,” I agree. </p><p>Kensington Rose Cumberbatch never has pocket money. Mostly because she breaks things and we make her replace them. We lack nice things due to our daughter who has been on a rampage since she figured out how to crawl, but our friends all keep replacing their things with more expensive things for her to break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All's Well That Ends Well (Lagom): An Epilogue

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

**April 2015…**

_Pamela_

“Do you realize we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Basil?”

Pamela stared at Door as she smoothed her hands down her dark blue dress for the millionth time. Door didn’t look like herself this afternoon, due to the fact she’d been attacked by Pamela’s brother’s wife (Jenny, her name was Jenny) so her hair was all polished and smoothed. Her face was surreal with the gallon of makeup Jenny slathered on to make Door “HD Photo Ready.”

Pamela doubted she’d look like herself either, but she was avoiding looking in a mirror. 

“I’m serious,” Door went on. “It’s all Basil’s fault. All of it.”

“All of it,” Pamela echoed. 

“Yeah. This huge, overboard wedding, the fact Kerr has gum stuck in his hair, the reason you keep looking at me like I’m an alien, the reason I live in London, hell, the reason you even know Tom is due to Basil the Shedding Menace.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You’re getting married because of my stupid dog!” Door shouted. “In two minutes, your dad is going to burst through that door, walk you down the aisle, and you’re gonna be Mrs Thomas William Hiddleston!”

“I’m going to need to order new name tags,” Pamela suddenly realized. “Why didn’t I think of this before? I have had nothing to do except work! Why didn’t I order new name tags?”

Door stared at Pamela like she had two heads. 

“You’re going to freak out about name tags?” 

“I need new ones!”

“When you legally change your name!”

“Which I am doing—”

“As soon as you get back from your honeymoon,” Door finished. “But, seriously, this is all Basil’s fault, so just blame Basil.”

“Why is it your dog’s fault I forgot to order new name tags for my uniforms?”

“Because, two years ago, give or take, she took off running at a guy on a bench for no apparent reason and here we are!”

Pamela rolled her eyes as the door flew open. She turned around to find her dad standing in the door way, beaming as if he was a light.

“There she is, my beautiful girl! You ready to go get married?”

“I forgot to order new name tags.”

Door let out a loud, frustrated sigh. “Leave it to Pamela to fixate on name tags on her wedding day.”

“I’ll order them.”

“You can’t! You’re my dad.”

“Pamela, you’ve got an iPhone, an iPad, and a laptop. You are not going to the middle of nowhere for your honeymoon. I bet the five star hotel you’re staying at will have Wi-Fi. You can order your name tags there. Or, if you want, we can do it now and you can be late for your wedding,” Door offered.

Pamela nodded, reaching for the useless purse thing Emma Hiddleston had insisted she needed for today to store her iPhone. (And lipstick and various other things she _might_ need. Not that she was allowed to carry the purse. Door had to carry it around for her. Or something stupid. Why had she agreed to this wedding business? Oh, right. Because Tom wanted it and Pamela figured since she ruined whatever he’d originally had planned in his head for getting engaged, she could let him have the wedding he wanted because she didn’t care.)

(Maybe she did care. Why couldn’t they do what Door and Benedict had done? They’d just decided, somewhat randomly, to go get married at the courthouse. Or wherever you do that kind of thing in England. While Door said it was random, seeing it was on the day they’d originally met, Pamela didn’t think it was all that random. Also, Door’s parents had been in town. BUT, there was no WEDDING THING.)

(Pamela was looking forward to having her living room back. It had been overrun by presents. Why did people think she needed things? Oh, wait, that’s right. Tom and her MOTHER had registered them for things.)

(What these things were, Pamela didn’t know. Tom hadn’t let her open anything yet. They were having a WEDDING PRESENT OPENING PARTY after the honeymoon. Why? WHY? WHY?)

(Pamela didn’t know.)

“What are you doing?”

“Buying name tags.”

Door snatched the phone out of Pamela’s hand.

“I wasn’t being serious. Sheesh. You can order your name tags after you’re Mrs Hiddleston.”

“This is her version of being nervous,” Pamela’s dad offered. 

“I am not nervous! Why on Earth would I be nervous?”

“Uh, because your’e marrying a movie star who has millions of crazed fans all over the world who hate your guts?” Door offered. 

“Because it’s normal to be nervous before you get married,” Dad offered. 

“I am not nervous! I am frustrated!” Pamela burst out, rounding on Door. “I hate this dress. I hate your dress. I hate your hair! I hate your face!”

“It sounds to me as if you don’t like anything about me,” Door quietly said, staring at her dress, smoothing it out yet again.

“Why couldn’t we just elope?” Pamela wailed. 

Door looked alarmed, but Pamela’s dad swooped in, gathering her into his arms and moving her away from Door. 

“All you have to do is walk down the aisle and get married,” he said soothingly. “You want to do that right?”

“No. I just want to be married. No walking, no self written vows—”

“Tom wrote both the vows,” Door pointed out.

“—no huge party with dancing after!”

“Ah,” Dad said, smiling sadly. “We’ve found the problem.”

“Dancing?” Door asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh…OH!”

Pamela glared at both of them. 

“I can’t dance. I can’t even walk in a straight line!” Door offered. 

“You don’t have to go out there on your own!”

“Didn’t Tom make you take dance lessons? It seems like a thing he’d do,” Door commented.

Pamela felt her cheeks heat up. Of course Tom had signed them up for lessons. This was where Pamela learned she had six left feet and no right feet. Door and her dad exchanged glances before both sighing. 

“You’ll be fine. Just let Tom lead and no one will notice.”

“Yeah. They’ll be distracted by how gorgeous you two are,” Door offered. 

“Where’s my calm girl?” Dad asked.

“Tom only brings out this side of her,” Door explained in a loud whisper.

Pamela glared at Door.

“I know, I know. You hate my face. At least you didn’t tell me I was fat,” Door commented.

“You’re not fat,” Pamela snapped. “Why do you still think you’re fat?”

“I still need to loose ten pounds.”

“You do not. You’re fine.”

“I’m ten pounds heavier still.”

Pamela groaned. 

“HA! Let’s go,” Door said.

How’d they’d get her out of the little room where they’d stored her and out into the sanctuary? 

“Oh, Pamela, you’re gorgeous!” Emma gushed in a hushed voice as the wedding march began to play. “I look forward to having you as a sister-in-law!”

Emma kissed her on both cheeks before turning and waiting for Door to get Kerr down the aisle with the rings. Kerr had just figured out how to walk (kind of) a week ago and was determined to walk (or his version) instead of being carried. Luckily, it wasn’t an abnormally long aisle. 

“I’ll let the DJ know that you two only need a minute on your own before everyone else joins you. At any of the dances you have to do on your own, which is only two,” her dad whispered to her before the music changed to signal it was time for her to walk down towards the front. 

“Thanks,” Pamela whispered.

“Though, I’m sure Tom already thought of that,” he said before plastering on a smile. “And smile. I’ve no idea where the photographer got to, but I know he’s got like ten aids and they’re likelyhidden everywhere.”

Pamela plastered on a smile, which remained fake until she spotted Tom. 

Her Tom.

And of course, he was beaming away. However, during the coarse of their relationship, she’d learned his smiles. While it was rare he faked smiles, there was a way that he only smiled at her. She’d NEVER seen a photograph of that smile (unless she was standing within a few feet of him). It was her smile and when he beamed it at her, she couldn’t keep a fake smile up and she forgot out the huge wedding, the 300 guests, the dancing, and the unordered name tags. 

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

“Don’t tell Mum, but I’m quite glad we did it as we did it,” Ben whispers after dinner was served and the dancing started.

“Oh? I thought you were heart broken you didn’t get the big, traditional wedding?”

“I thought I was, but now I’m not.”

Kerr is passed out on Ben’s shoulder, drooling all over his expensive suit. While I was part of the wedding party, Ben was not. Not because Tom didn’t ask, but because someone had to watch the terror known as Kerr Carlton Thomas Cumberbatch. And Kerr is a daddy’s boy, so it made sense to let me be the maid of honor and Ben to mind the child. 

(And Kerr’s not really a terror. He’s only ten months. He’s actually a really good baby. Especially when the drooling stopped.)

(Except when he’s sleeping, evidently.) 

“I’d still like to have a party,” Ben says wistfully. 

“Yeah. I figured you’d miss the dancing.” 

“You didn’t have dancing at your first wedding.”

“Or my second.”

Ben gives me a look.

“Fine. Fine. Fine. We can have a reception as a year anniversary party. Kerr will be fully mobile by that point. It’ll be great.”

Ben fondly pats sleeping Kerr’s head. 

“Give him here. I’ll go and hang out with him while you do your socializing thing here.”

“No. I’ll—”

“I hate parties. I hate large gatherings. I’ve done my duty, it’s time for me to crash. Give me my child and go get your social on.”

Ben gives me a strange look, but takes my hand in his free one and kisses it lightly, giving me those damn eyes of his that make my insides go all warm and fuzzy. I keep my annoyed look on my face, but I know he sees through it. His little smirk tells me so. 

“Child,” I demand, putting my arms out.

Kerr is a gangly baby. He’s still all limbs. He wakes up a little during the switch off, letting out a loud wail in my ear before going back to sleep. Half deaf, I exit the banquet hall and head for the cars lined up outside to take people where they want to go. (Great idea. No one has to worry about drinking and driving!) After grabbing up Kerr’s carseat from the coat check, I pick a car and luck out in getting one that the driver actually knows how to install the carseat without the base. He drives me back to the hotel and even unhooks the carseat for me. 

I tragically have to fully wake Kerr up to get him out of his little suit and ready for bed. He is not thrilled to realize Daddy’s no where around and it’s only Mummy. (Yeah, I go by Mummy.) We battle for almost a half hour before he finally gives up and falls asleep. I finally change out of the dress Emma picked out (I do not fool myself to think Pamela had any say in anything at that wedding. That was a Hiddleston wedding that Pamela Fitch happily attended after she got over her fright about dancing. She did fine. Ben was shocked to hear she’d been freaking out about it.) Jenny did a great job at hiding my freckles to the point I almost don’t want to wash the makeup off my face. But I do, because I feel gross. 

* * *

Ben and I got married in January.

It wasn’t really something we planned on, but I suddenly realized about two days before they arrived, my parents were coming the day before the anniversary of the day Ben and I met. 

“Wouldn’t it be cool to get married on the day we met?” I’d randomly asked. 

Ben didn’t say anything. When I finally looked up from the purse sketches I’d been working on, I found Ben giving me this extremely sappy look. I gave him a look (one that hopefully said, uh, okay you sap) and went back to work. 

I should have known better, as the next day Ben appeared with a bunch of information about getting married in London. I had a feeling he’d been hoarding it for a while, just waiting to spring it on me when the moment was right. 

We spent the day running around getting everything in order in order to make our deadline. 

And least to say my parents were floored when they’d shown up to visit (finally) and found out they were attending a marriage ceremony the next morning. 

Besides my parents, Ben’s parents attended. Well, and Kerr, but I’m pretty sure he had no clue what was going on. My mom was thrilled we were married (finally) and my dad cried like he usually does when I do anything big. 

Eloping is the way to go, man. Seriously. And if I had been a UK citizen, it’d been a lot easier. 

Anyways, we’ve been married for four months and the press still doesn’t know. It’s awesome. We’re going to see how long we can go before we get outed. I mean, Vincent Kartheiser and Alexis Bledel went two whole months before the news leaked out. We’ve totally beat them.

Granted, the press only recently found out about Kerr and myself and our actual connection to Ben. We confirmed shortly after we moved into our new flat that yes, we’d had a kid together, yes, we were dating, and no, we weren’t getting married. 

Then, we went and got married. 

Because, well, the romantic in me liked the idea of being married on the date we met two years prior. 

The day Basil Bea Dog, the Shedding Menace, the Barking Wonder, Miss Moron-Idiot Dog herself introduced us. 

* * *

I have no idea what time Ben gets back. Kerr sleeps ten hours at night. (Making up for the whole not sleeping thing he did in his first three months of life, I guess.) Kerr’s not awake, so it’s not morning yet. Kerr gets up at eight, but since he didn’t go to bed till almost ten, he’ll likely stay in bed till nine.

“What time is it?”

“Did I wake you?”

“No. I just woke myself up to ask what time it was. Luckily you’re here.”

“It’s almost three.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They just left.”

“Seriously?”

“Pamela likes to party,” Ben laughed. “Who knew?”

“Yeah. Who knew?” 

Color me shocked. I thought Pamela was a hermit at heart.

“I’m pretty sure the secret was the mojitos Emma kept giving her,” Ben commented. 

I snort. “Yeah. I guess that’ll do it. She kind of was a bit wild at her drop night. Someone kept plying her with margaritas in celebration of getting a C-17 to Seattle,” I explain sleepily. “Kerr alive?”

I grin as Ben stumbles a little in his quest to remove his trousers. 

“Yes. I was extra quiet.”

“Because you’re extra drunk?”

“I am not drunk,” Ben insists. “Just a little tipsy.”

“Hmmm,” I hum. “I’ll only believe you because you’re not being loud, wild, or trying to convince me you’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am Sherlock Holmes,” Ben whispers, falling face first onto the bed. “My trousers won’t come off.”

“Poor you.” 

“You usually remove my clothes.”

“Only when I want to have sex with you.”

“You don’t want to have sex with me? I’m sexy.”

“You’re drunkish. Not sexy. So take your own pants off.”

Ben grumbles, flails around, but does finally get his trousers and pants off. 

“You sleeping naked?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I should leave the pants on, shouldn’t I?”

“It’s up to you.”

Ben grunts, but doesn’t move. I wait a few minutes before I roll over and go to sleep. 

* * *

“I hate myself.”

“Good.”

“Why aren’t you hung over?”

“Still feeding your child breast milk. Also, wait for it, I don’t drink like a fish.”

Ben groans, hiding under the covers.

“DA!!!!!!!!!!!”

Ben groans even louder.

“DA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“You child calls.”

Ben hauls himself out of the bed, trips over his trousers, and face plants on the carpet.

“Why don’t you just stay there,” I offer, scrambling out of bed and into the other room of the suite where Kerr’s crib is located.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Tom_

“I hate you.”

“You do not.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“No, you don’t. You ought to hate Emma.”

“Fine. I hate her too.”

“I didn’t keep you in mojitos all night.”

“You let her.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“I hate you.”

“I learned to hold my own early on, love.”

“I still hate you.”

“Fine. I love you too, darling dove.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get me water.”

* * *

Paris was kind of cliche, but the last time Pamela had gone to Paris, she’d had a rotten time and slept on a bench. This time, she stayed in a five star hotel and slept in a fluffy king sized bed. While Tom knew he had to give Basil Bea (the Rotten) Dog her chops at allowing him to meet Pamela, the fact she’d had a horrid time in Paris two years ago was also part of the reason why she’d met him.

So, he was going to show her a good time and that Paris wasn’t a horrible place filled with rude French people. 

“You win,” Pamela said on their last day in France. “Paris is a romantic city.”

“You know why it’s romantic this time, right?”

“You’re here. It wasn’t romantic on my own. It was annoying, cold, and bench filled.”

“This trip has a distinct lack of benches.”

“Good. I hate benches.”

“Poor benches.”

“Almost as much as I hate mojitos.”

“Ah, must be strong hatred, then.”

“I’m never drinking again. Ever. Flying while hungover is the worst.”

Tom snorted.

“I still hate you.”

“I had nothing to do with the mojito disaster!”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, cinnamon, I really didn’t. Okay, I did mention to her you liked them, but I didn’t suggest she keep giving them to you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No! I didn’t really want a drunk wife.”

“No. Well, poor you, you had a drunk wife.”

“That was fine. I had a wife.”

“Oh, shut up, Hiddleston. You’re being cute.”

“I’m always cute.”

Pamela grumbled, throwing a pillow at his head. 

“Fine. I love you.”

“Thank you,” Tom said, smiling as he fluffed the pillow she’d thrown at him. “Now, come here and show me just how much you love me.”

Pamela gave him a naughty looking smile and launched herself at him. 

* * *

**Four Years Later…**

“I hate you.”

“Yes. I know you do,” Tom soothed. He brushed back a few strains of hair off Pamela’s sweaty forehead. “You’re doing wonderful.”

“I hate you.”

“Yes, yes, I know. You’ve hated me since we were married.”

“I hate you more now.”

And she screamed.

“Breathe, breathe, breathe,” Tom urged. 

“I…Hate…You,” Pamela panted. 

Tom gave the nurse in the room with them at that moment a smile. She gave him a strange look and went back to whatever she was doing. 

“You know, Door’s done this twice now and she doesn’t hate Ben,” Tom said once the contraction was done. 

“Door’s insane,” Pamela ground out. “Also, her epidural took on both sides.”

“Did it the first time?”

Pamela sent him a dark look and Tom wisely shut up. 

So far, labor had been smooth, but the epidural had run out and to start it’d only taken on one side. 

“Is the anesthesiologist on the way?” Tom asked the nurse who was checking various things attached to Pamela. 

“Yes. Shortly,” she answered. “Get ready.”

Tom quickly began chanting to breathe as another contraction happened. He’d given up trying to get Pamela to stop telling him she hated him. It’d gotten to the point he no longer noticed. He simply agreed with her. He’d totally forgotten this was the case till the anesthesiologist showed up to give Pamela more epidural drug and looked horrified that Tom’s wife was yelling she hated him. 

(The staff all knew who he was.) 

“She doesn’t really hate me,” Tom assured.

“Yes…I…Do…ARG!” Pamela shouted, grinding her teeth together. 

“Well, it should be getting better any minute,” the anesthesiologist assured, glancing between Pamela and Tom. 

Pamela was still for a moment, then breathed out. Tom watched the monitor as another contraction hit.

“Feel that one?” the nurse behind him asked.

“Only on the right side,” Pamela grumped.

“Let’s check you and then get you onto your side. That seemed to work best.”

Tom moved out of the way and sat down in the uncomfortable bed/chair thing that was where the Dad’s were to sit/sleep. 

“Eight centimeters. You’re almost there.”

“Great,” Pamela said wearily. “Why does anyone do this?”

“For the wonderful bundle of joy you get at the end,” the nurse said.

Pamela sent the woman a dark look. 

“Pamela, stop scaring the nurses,” Tom scolded. 

“I’m not talking to you. I hate you,” Pamela grumbled as the nurse rolled her onto her side. After making sure she was comfortable, the nurse scurried out and Pamela fell asleep.

Tom liked the fact that while Pamela was drugged up she could sleep through most of her contractions. Well, till they woke her up to check her dilation. However, they came in almost every half hour to check the machines, thus waking Tom up.

Not that he minded all that much. It was nearing time he’d get to meet his daughter. He was thrilled. 

* * *

“All right, we’re going to push on the next contraction,” the nurse said. 

“I’ve been pushing for two hours!” Pamela bellowed. 

Tom really wanted hold Pamela’s hand or something, but both his hands were busy holding her numb legs up at an awkward angle. While Pamela might be tiny, her legs without any muscle control were heavy. 

“And I’m here!” the doctor exclaimed, banging into the room. 

Tom learned the OBGYN didn’t actually show his face until the baby was really due to show up. (Or something went horribly wrong.)

“FINALLY!” Pamela shouted. “GET HER OUT! NOW!”

The nurse gave the doctor a run down on the two hours of pushing and the fact the baby kept coming down and going back up (or in). She also let the doctor know the formerly calm, collected Pamela Hiddleston was no longer available. 

“I HATE YOU!” Pamela shouted suddenly, throwing something at Tom’s head. He had no idea where she’d gotten whatever hard object she’d thrown at him from, as she wasn’t wearing anything other than the hospital gown and there was nothing within her reach that was detachable. 

“Oh, and she really hates her husband,” the nurse concluded.

The doctor chuckled. “I see. Wasn’t sure anyone could hate you.”

Tom smiled. “She hates me when she’s in pain.”

“Any kind of pain?”

“Mostly,” Tom cheerfully said. 

The nurse took Pamela’s right leg from Tom and Tom had a free hand to grab onto Pamela’s. 

“All right, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Turned out the baby was stuck in Pamela’s hip and needed some help. After getting the help, it only took three more pushes to get the head out. Pamela collapsed backwards.

“No, no, just a couple more. Gotta get the rest out,” the doctor said. 

Pamela didn’t bother to get back onto her elbows where she’s been before. She remained flat on her back, eyes screwed shut, squeezed the daylights out of Tom’s hand, and pushed. 

Tom made a note to ask Ben how he’d manage to talk Door into having another child, as from what Tom remembered, Door had had less fun than Pamela giving birth, and yet she’d done it again. 

“And she’s out!” the doctor exclaimed.

Tom’s mouth dropped open as he stared at his daughter. They handed him something to cut the cord, which he did as they quickly wiped her down and set her on Pamela’s now bare chest. 

When had she taken her top off?

“I still hate you.”

“Pain didn’t magically go away?”

“Nope.”

“She’s beautiful,” Tom breathed, eyes wide.

“Of course she is,” Pamela said, not taking her eyes off the baby. While the pain might not have magically gone away, she was blissfully unaware of anything going on around her. All her attention was on the baby. 

“So, did you two decide on a name?”

“Elise,” Tom said before Pamela could say anything. He looked up to find Pamela staring at him in confusion. “You can’t shorten that name. And it’s pretty. She looks like an Elise.”

“Oh,” Pamela breathed. “They could call her Lise.”

“Well, yes, but it’s not as common to shorten an already short name,” Tom pointed out.

“Good point. Elise,” Pamela repeated, looking back at their daughter. 

“It’s pretty,” the nurse assured. “Middle name?”

Pamela finally looked up at Tom, a look of panic on her face. Tom smiled at the nurse, pulling up a chair so he could finally sit down. (He’d been standing for over two hours.) 

Tom looked up at Pamela hopefully. She bit her bottom lip before looking back at the baby. 

“How about Paris?”

“Not Basil?” Pamela challenged. (Door had suggested Basil as a name. Because Tom had suggested his own name for Kerr’s middle name.)

“No. While Basil did play a part, Paris is the real reason we’re here,” Tom said, reaching out to touch his daughter. She gripped his finger. Tom smiled. “Basil is also not a girl’s name, as I’ve told Basil numerous times.”

Pamela snorted.

Tom smoothed Pamela’s sweaty hair off her forehead and placed a gentle kiss against her temple. 

“I love you,” he whispered to her. 

She leaned her head against his, glancing at him under her lashes before looking back at Elise Paris Hiddleston. “I know.”

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

I am insane. 

Totally, unbalanced.

What the hell was I thinking?

No. Don’t think.

Whatever you do, don’t think.

Okay. It’s not working. I’m still thinking. 

I’m mental.

“Mummy,” Kerr, almost five-years-old, whines. Loudly.

“No.”

“Muuuuuuuuuuuuumy.”

“No.”

“Bored.”

Kerr’s third word was “bored.” I blame Ben. 

What was I thinking?

“Ouch. Kenzie, don’t pull Mommy’s hair,” I chide my daughter. “I need that on my head.”

Kenzie, four months old, doesn’t give a frack I would rather have hair on my head than in her mouth. Seriously? She’s not just pulling on it she’s slobbering on it?

Can I go home?

“Those children are totes adorbs,” someone says, smiling like a lunatic at me. 

Does anyone even say _totes adorbs_ any more? Or am I just really out of it because I spend my life watching _Sesame Street_? I mean, I’m totally the it designer in handbags. I’ve branched out into actual fashion. Clothes, accessories, handbags, shoes (!!!). I’m with it. But _totes adorbs_?

“Muuummmmmeeeeeeeeee,” Kerr whines louder. 

“You want them?” I ask as Kenzie tries to rip my now slobber soaked hair out of my head. 

No. I don’t need any hair. Why would I need hair?

If Ben ever makes another kid’s movie, I’m not bringing our children to it. 

Ever.

Even if they are fifty. 

They are NOT coming along.

“Where’s Daddy?” Kerr asks in his ever so proper British accent. (Granddad works on it with him. All the time.) 

“He’s over there,” the woman says. “You are adorable. You look just like your daddy.”

Who is this person? Why are they talking to me? Well, Kerr. She’s given up on me. I wouldn’t blame her. I’ve given up on me. 

How the hell did the Duchess of Cambridge get through public appearances with a baby and not get slobber hair? Maybe they train royal babies not to slobber? 

“Cricket, dear,” Ben starts, sweeping Kerr up into his arms. “Oh, hello.”

He starts to talk with whoever the woman is. Judging by the way he’s speaking to her, she did one of the voices for the movie. 

Ben likes animation. I think it’s because he can do it wherever there’s a sound studio, meaning he doesn’t have to go anywhere and can be home. I’m pretty sure if he could, he’d stay home and be a stay at home dad. I won’t let him. He has to act. Plus, I’m home almost all the time. I don’t have to go anywhere. Well, other than New York. And Paris. And sometimes Hong Kong.

But, I’m home more than he is. 

“Shall we go in?”

“God, yes.”

“At least they got their red carpet photos before you got slobbered all over,” Ben comments lightly. 

I glare at him. 

He smiles and kisses me on the cheek before engaging Kerr in conversation about the movie. I’ve no idea what it’s about. I only agreed to bring Kenzie and myself because I needed to get out of the house. (And wanted an excuse to get dressed up and have my face and hair done professionally.) Also, Kenzie really likes brightly colored things and singing. This movie, Ben told me, has both. 

Since Kerr was born, Ben tends to take more projects aimed at kids or families.

“I want him to be able to see something I do before he’s grown,” Ben explained. “He sees what you do on a daily basis.”

The flat, the same one we moved into when I first moved to London, is always filled with samples of purses, shoes, and clothes. We need a bigger flat since Kenzie was born, but we’ve yet to get around to looking in the four months since she was born. We looked around before she showed up, but between Ben’s projects and the fact fashion doesn’t stop, we didn’t get around to buying one. 

Oops.

We’ll get there. 

I really like our flat. 

* * *

Kenzie fell asleep before the movie was over. Which was all the better for not being slobbered upon, but she woke up when it was over and time to go to the after party. By the time we get home, it’s almost eight (kid movie premiers are in the afternoon!). Kerr is cranky, mostly because he missed dinner. He ate at the party, but it wasn’t a proper dinner. Mostly sugar. Now he’s crashing.

Ben’s trying to give him a bath. From the sound of it, Kerr’s having a meltdown. 

“You’re not going to melt down on Mom, are you?” I ask Kenzie, who is busy slurping down her bottle. (She refuses to take a boob. I keep being told my boobs are great for breast feeding, but neither kid agreed by four months, so I became a pumper.) “No. You’re a good baby. You were a good newborn too. Slept all the time. Heck, you sleep all the time now. Yeah. Now, if you’d just stop pulling and slobbering on my hair.”

Kenzie tries to laugh around the bottle I’m feeding her. It mostly gets milk all over the place. 

I quietly hum Kerr’s favorite song to Kenzie (he gets mad if I sing it to her, as it’s HIS song and he WILL NOT SHARE, brat) as she goes back to chomping down on her bottle’s nipple. (Thank god she’s not doing that to me anymore.) 

I don’t even notice the silence till I feel Ben’s presence next to me. We smile at one another. Ben kisses my head and heads out to take Basil Bea to the garden to do her business. 

Basil Bea is old. She’s ten now and I think she’s nearing the end of the road. Her gimpy leg pains her these days and sometimes she has issues going up and down the stairs. She no longer runs around like a maniac in the back garden either, which is sad to me as I remember when I first met her and she would run and run and run when given any green space. The vet says she’s aging well, her arthritis isn’t anything to worry about yet, and she has a few more years in her. 

It just kind of makes me a little sad that Kenzie likely won’t remember Basil. 

I finish feeding Kenzie, swaddle her up in her crib, crank the mobile, and switch the sound machine on. Before I’m even out the door, she’s zonked out.

So much easier than Kerr. 

I quietly shut the door, tip toe down the hall to the kitchen, then wait for Ben to come back with Basil. I sit down at the kitchen table and drum my fingers against the glass. Suddenly, I hear a strange noise coming from the lounge. I get up, heading into the room. After a quick hunt, I unearth my mobile from under a pile of toys. Clearly, Kerr took it and buried it again. I have several texts from both Pamela and Tom.

OH!

I quickly unlock my phone (Kerr hasn’t figure that out yet), and begin cooing and ahhing over the photos of the Baby Elise Paris (Darn. They didn’t go with Basil). 

I hear Basil’s toe nails on the hardwood and look up. I scamper over to Ben, who’s grinning. 

“I take it you got the texts?”

“Yeah! You knew already?”

“Yes. I checked whilst I had Basil out,” Ben admits. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”

He’s got that sappy look on his face he gets around babies and children alike.

“No way, Cumberbatch. I just had one.”

“I didn’t say anything, Cumberbatch.”

“You’ve got that look on your face. The one you get when you want another one.”

“I do not.”

“Yeah, you do. I’m done.”

“You said that after Kerr.”

“I’m really done now! We’ve got one of each!”

“Tom says Pamela isn’t have another one either,” Ben says, grinning. 

“If Pamela says it, she means it,” I admit. I look back at the picture of little Elise Bea. “They didn’t name their child after our dog.”

“Your dog.”

“Our dog, you looby. She’s our dog. We might not have picked her out together, but she’s our dog.” 

 We both look down at our feet where Basil is sitting, staring up at us and looking like her usual pathetic self. She wants to go to bed, but she won’t head into our room to get into her crate until we go to bed as well. 

Because of this, we tend to go to bed earlier than most people. Most people with kids tend to stay up after they put their kids to sleep. Not us. We go to bed because after we put Kerr to sleep at eight, then get Kenzie down by nine, Basil demands we go to bed, so we do.

Well, demands by looking pathetic.

Ben takes my hand, tugs a little, and says, “Let’s go to bed.”

“Yeah. Okay. Come on, Basil. Go to bed.”

She perks up, hobbles off down the hallway. She pauses in the doorway, giving us both a look that clearly states, “COME ON GUYS!”

Ben chuckles, winding his fingers with mine. Together, we head off to bed. 

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

**Bonus Randomness…**

_Dorothea_

**_Eight Years Later…_ **

“How is this my life?”

“How are you even still asking this question?”

“Look at this place. I live here.”

“I know you live here.”

“How can I live here?”

“Because you bought it?”

“I live here,” Pamela repeats for like the millionth time. 

Pamela is having hard time accepting the fact she lives in London now that she’s retired from the Air Force and working for British Airways. The Hiddlestons bought a lovely mews house in Belgravia, somewhat near where we bought a flat in Knightsbridge. They have a bright TARDIS blue door and garage door. It’s brilliant. I kind of wish we’d looked more into mew houses when we’d been looking for a flat, but eh. I like where we ended up. Kerr likes the fact we’re close to shopping, while Kenzie likes the fact she has a floor of her own (well, not really, but we let her think that). 

“I live here. In the heart of London,” Pamela informed me, turning to me. “In an old stable.”

I snort. “Okay. Yeah. You live in a stable, but a lot of people live in them these days. And pay a pretty penny.”

“I know,” Pamela agrees, staring the open French doors into their small “garden.”

If there’s one thing I miss about our old flat, it’s the garden. While the new flat is huge, it’s on the top floor of the building and doesn’t have a garden, being in the heart of the city and all. I figured the lack of garden was fine because by the time we moved, Basil Bea was long gone to puppy heaven.Basil Bea lasted till Kenzie as about four before she just kind of gave up on life. Literally. One morning, she just kind of fell over and didn’t get back up. Totally freaked Kerr out. Ben and I figured it had scared the kid for life, but then a year later, he began to bug us to get another dog. 

We didn’t give in for almost seven years. 

Basil Bea II is currently sniffing around Tom and Pamela’s brand new home. Basil Bea II is a little better behaved than Bail Bea I. Basil Bea II is similar in the fact she’s a mutt of some sort, tri-colored, and a gimp.

Yeah, I found another dog with a bad back leg. I am just that talented. 

Basil Bea II is bigger than Basil Bea I and has a longer coat of hair. However, they are both still shedding menaces to society. Long live fur balls. 

“She’s cute,” Pamela comments, jerking her head in Basil Bea II’s direction. “She’s going to be bigger than Basil.”

“Yeah. I told Kerr that when they told us she was six months old. Basil at six months was micro sized compared to BB.”

I always call the new dog either by her full name or just BB. She’s not an idiot, but she still likes to get her bark on. Mostly when the kids rough house and when babies cry on TV. Doorbells do not phase her and she has no clue what the UPS truck sounds like, so she can’t bark at that. 

“She’s sweet, though,” Pamela comments as the dog wanders out into the garden through the open doors. 

“Yeah. Where is Tom?”

“No clue. He took the Jag out to stretch it’s legs or something,” Pamela said, getting up and heading into the kitchen to make herself another cup of coffee. 

Tom, after buying a pick up truck, became obsessed with motor vehicles. While they were living in America, he owned at least three cars plus the pick up. I think he got rid of the truck before they moved here, but he is currently working to ship the three cars. They’re classics or something. 

“Did he not know I was coming over today?” I gasp, putting my hand to my chest. “I’m totally scared for life now.” 

Pamela rolls her eyes at me. 

“So, how’s Elise adjusting to life in London?” I ask as Pamela frowns at the coffee maker. It’s one of those high tech gizmos. I’m sure she picked it out and not Tom. Tom’s British. He’d drink instant coffee and not need an actual coffee maker. 

“She thinks it’s great,” Pamela says. “She misses her friends from Texas, but she’s thrilled to be on a new adventure. I’m actually not sure she can be sad and upset. She’s just like her father.”

I chuckle. “Yeah. Her hair proves it.”

“I am so jealous of her hair,” Pamela laments, as the coffee maker makes a hissing noise. 

“Don’t be. She’ll really hate it in a few years.”

“Like Kenzie?”

“Yes, just like Kenzie. Though that poor kid has the added bonus of being ginger.”

“I love your hair,” Pamela says, sitting down as something upstairs crashes. 

“That’s not how you do that!” comes my daughter’s posh sounding voice. 

“I can do it how I like, Kensington Cumberbatch,” comes a Southern drawl. “But, we can do it your way if we have to.”

“Do not call me that,” Kenzie hisses. “God awful name.”

I snort.

“It’s pretty,” Elise Hiddleston insists.

“Tom said he’s planning on being utterly heart broken when Elise looses her Southern drawl,” Pamela comments. 

“Well, maybe she’ll be one of those kids that holds onto their accent tightly?”

“She’s only eight,” Pamela points out. “Kids tend to pick up the accent they are most exposed to.”

“Then, how’d she get a Southern accent?”

Pamela shrugged. “Likely because Tom kept talking in one to her.”

I snort. “He would. Ben tried to get Kenzie to have an American accent by talking to her in one. As you can tell, that failed.”

“Elise really picked it up when she started school,” Pamela admitted. “All the kids in school had one, so she started talking in one. As soon as school begins here, she’ll start talking like the kids here.”

“At least you got her into Kenzie’s school so she’ll know her. If Kenzie’s still talking to her.”

I feel mildly embarrassed by my bratty child. I have no idea what either of them are doing up there, but I know my daughter is being an utter brat. 

“No!” Kenzie shouts. “MOM!”

“YOU ARE WRONG, CUMBERBATCH! PLAY NICE!” I yell back. “Sorry.”

Pamela shrugs. “If the neighbor’s complain, I’ll just blame you crazy Cumberbatches.”

“We are crazy. When do you start work?”

“Next week.”

“Excited.”

A bashful smile appears on Pamela’s face. “Yeah. It feels like eons since I flew. Last assignment was mostly paperwork.”

“Yeah. Don’t want those officers with experience flying now, do we?”

Pamela snorts. She picks up her coffee mug and sits down at the table. We stare out into the garden. 

“Life’s been good,” I state.

“Yeah,” Pamela agrees. “Who would have thought when I was sleeping on a bench in Paris, I’d wind up here. In a million dollar home in the heart of London.” 

“Yeah, well, while you were sleeping on benches in Paris, I was wasting away in Texas. Urg. I hate Texas.”

“I love Texas,” Pamela says in a dreamy voice.

“You have turned into a sap in your old age, missy,” I scold. 

“Have not,” Pamela insists. She takes a sip of her coffee. “You’d think after twelve years of marriage I’d get used to this.”

“This being what exactly?”

“My life. This is my life,” Pamela says, gesturing around the kitchen. It’s an ordinary kitchen, nothing really all that special. It’s not as grand as our kitchen, but it’s nice. I look back at her. “Do you not think it’s kind of, I don’t know, luck? Or something. I’m not sure.”

“It’s all Basil’s fault. I told you that,” I remind her. “You’d likely still be an old maid in the Air Force if Basil hadn’t decided many moons ago that she’d rather be with the Man on the Bench than the Woman Who Feeds Thee.” 

Pamela rolled her eyes. She raised her cup to the ceiling and said, “Well, I thank thee Basil Bea I.” 

“Here, here,” I agree, toasting with my almost empty cup of tea. 

Upstairs, there is another crash and two little girls shout, “BASIL!”

The dog in question comes pelting down the stairs and into the kitchen, followed by the two girls, who are both shouting over one another. 

“GET BACK HERE YOU BAD DOG!” Kenzie screams, tripping over her own feet as she enters the kitchen following the dog, who is currently hiding behind me. 

“Kensington! It wasn’t the dog’s fault. She’s just a dog!” Elise exclaims, running into Kenzie. 

They both wind up in a heap on the floor. 

I work hard not to laugh. 

“What is going on?” Pamela demands cooly and calmly. 

“Basil knocked over a vase,” Kenzie immediately explains. 

“We have a vase?” Pamela asks.

“Oh, Mom,” Elise sighs dramatically. 

“What crashed earlier?” I inquire.

“Me,” Elise says. “We were doing some—” 

“She was being a horrible Loki,” Kenzie reports. “I was doing a really good Iron Man and she was supposed to throw me out the window, but wouldn’t. So I threw myself.”

“You threw yourself out the window?”

“Of course not,” Kenzie says, giving me a look that clearly says I am stupid.

I’ve given that same look to my own mother.

OMG.

I am my own mother.

Eh. It was bound to happen. 

“She threw herself off the couch,” Elise explains. “Why is Loki always the bad guy? I mean, I understand the need for a bad guy, but why is it always Loki.”

“It isn’t,” Kenzie says, sounding exasperated. “There are a ton of bad guys in Marvel.”

I quirk an eyebrow. 

“But, I like Loki,” Elise pouts.

“You only like Loki because your dad played him. Wanting Loki to be good is like wanting Kahn to be good. Not happening.” 

“Kenzie, if Elise wants Loki to be a good guy, she can make him a good guy,” I suggest. “He can be reformed.”

Elise lights up at this. “I like that. I’m a reformed Loki, so I’m not throwing you out a window.”

Kenzie pouts. “But, I want you to throw me out the window! It’s part of the story!”

“We can change the story!”

“No. Let’s play something else. I don’t want to be Iron Man any more.”

“Oh. Okay. I have princess clothes in my room. We can play dress up!”

Kenzie looks as if she swallowed a lemon.

Did I tell you that my daughter is the most un-girly girl I’ve ever met? Yeah. She is. 

“Elise, why don’t you get the cowboy stuff from our room for Kenzie. She can be a cowboy,” Pamela offers.

Kenzie lights up. 

The two girls run up the stairs for the master, where they will likely get into a ton of stuff and Kenzie will make a huge mess. Elise is a neat freak secretly. She hides it, but she is the neatest child in the world. 

“Oh, BB,” I say, realizing the dog is behind me hiding from two eight-year-old girls. “Just like your namesake, you’re kinda pathetic.”

“I need a horse!” Kenzie cries from somewhere above our heads. 

“How is she so loud?” Pamela wonders, staring at the ceiling. “The master’s on the third floor.”

I shrug. “She’s talented.”

“She’ll be an actor, you know.”

“Yeah. I know. She adores being the center of attention. Just like her father.” 

“BASIL! TO ME!” Kenzie shuts.

Basil Bea II perks up, forgets she’s hiding from two eight-year-olds, and scurries out of the kitchen. The girls play rather quietly for a moment before something on the third floor crashes to the floor with a loud thunk and Kenzie yells, “BASIL!”

I look at Pamela, who is giving me a look that tells me she regrets letting my family into her house. I sheepishly smile and hurry out of the room to see what now has broken in the Hiddleston household. 

Upon seeing the shattered remains of the lamp I know for a fact belonged to Tom’s grandmother many moons ago at the feet of my daughter, I kind of wish the ground would swallow me whole. I also know, for a solid fact, it wasn’t Basil Bea II who knocked the lamp over, but Kensington Rose Cumberbatch. 

“She did it,” Kensington claims, pointing at the confused looking dog. 

Elise, pointedly, says nothing.

“So, what—” 

Pamela stops behind me, a sharp intake of breath.

“Urgsish,” I mutter.

“That’s not a word,” Kensington sneers.

“You,” I say, voice sharp, “are grounded.”

Kensington opens her mouth, but snaps it shut as she takes in the sight of my thunderous expression. 

“I’ll take these with me,” I say, dropping to my knees to gather up the bits of lamp. “We’ll have it rebuilt. Or something.”

Pamela says nothing, but Elise says, “Thank you. She didn’t mean to knock it over. We were just playing.”

“I know, dear,” I assure Elise, who looks a little freaked out. “But Kensington ought to know by now not to play like this inside. Right?”

I’ve lost track of the things that have met their death by Kensington in our house. It’s worse than having a puppy and a toddler at the same time. And she was such a good baby. 

Pamela drops to her knees to help just as we hear a door creak open below somewhere. There is car running close by. An expensive sounding car.

It shuts off and a door creaks open below. 

“It is just not the same” begins a familiar sounding voice, “as driving Clara Bella.”

“Who?” asks my thirteen-year-old son.

How on Earth did Kerr get here? 

Doors slam. 

“My old, dearly departed truck,” Tom laments. “Met her maker finally. Gave me a good run, though.”

Pamela bangs her head on the floor, muttering about the truck. (I’ve never actually seen said truck in person, but I saw pictures of it. It was very white, very gigantorific, and very…unneeded, as they never did get the huge dog Tom had claimed he needed the thing for. Tom, however, loved that blasted thing.) 

“What happened? Dad’s last car’s engine exploded.”

“It did?”

It did not. It simply wasn’t worth fixing. Again. Expensive cars should not spend their lives in the shop.  

“Totally,” Kerr insists. “His new one isn’t as nice as this one.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Tom laughs. “Well, let’s see what the girls are up to.”

An old sounding door creaks shut. 

“Hurry,” Pamela whispers, gathering up the pieces of the lamp quicker. “Pick it up. Pick it up.”

“Daddy won’t be mad,” Elise insists, but hurries to aid us in our endeavor.

Of course Tom Hiddleson won’t coprolalia at the sight of Hurricane Kensington blew through his brand new house, breaking things left and right.

Then again…

“Hello?!” Tom bellows as he enters the house.

Basil Bea II begins barking, taking off from her spot under the bed where she decided to hide at some point. 

“Basil!” Tom and Kerr exclaim together.

Everybody loves Basil.

We manage to gather the last bits of lamp together and shove them into…

“OMG—”

“Mum, don’t say that,” Kensington sighs.

“—is that the Fugtastic Orange Purse?”

Pamela starts as she realized what exactly we’d stowed the antique lamp within. 

Weird.

“There you are! Is there a party in the bedroom I don’t know about?” Tom jokes as he enters the room. 

I am sure each one of us looks guilty. Tom regards us for a moment before his eyes light up at the sight of the Fugtastic Orange Purse. 

“I haven’t seen that thing in ages! I figured it’d gotten lost in one of our many moves!”

“Daddy,” Elise starts, getting to her feet. She’s wearing a familiar expression I’ve seen hundreds of times. It’s very similar to look Tom wears whilst acting and he has to break bad news to someone. “Your grandma’s lamp broke. It was an accident. We’re going to see if we can repair it. I’ll use my allowance money.”

“No, you will not.” 

Kensington stands up and looks outright furious.

“I broke it. I’ll pay for it,” she insists.

Elise smiles. “Oh, okay.”

Imp.

She is totally her father’s daughter. 

Just like Kensington is her father’s daughter.

“Mom, did you make that fugerific thing?” Kerr asks, peaking out from behind Tom with Basil jumping all around him to get his attention.

Kerr is totally my kid, down to the made up words and all. If only he looked anything like me. (Cumberbatch genes are strong. Judoc genes are weak.) 

“That is very nice of you, Kenzie, but you need not do that. It was just an old lamp,” Tom lies through his teeth. (I mean, even I knew the fact it meant something.) 

“I will pay for it,” Kenzie insists. She looks very stubborn. Ben claims when she looks like this she looks a lot like me, but I really don’t see it too much. She looks way too much like Ben (if he’d been a girl with red hair.)

“Oh.” 

Tom sounds surprised, yet equanimity radiates off him. He looks down at his foot, where Basil is peeing on his foot.

Seriously? 

Oh, bugger-buggerity. Kill me now and defenestrate me. 

“BASIL!”

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

I enter the flat to the sounds of an argument. Not all that strange, considering we’ve got a teenager. 

Oh, god.

I cannot believe Kerr is thirteen. 

“Hi.”

I look upwards to see Kenzie hanging over the railing to the upstairs loft. She looks guilty. 

Also, where is Basil? She always greets me when I come home.

“BASIL PEED ON TOM!” Door yells. “YOUR DOG PEED ON THE NICEST MAN ON THE PLANET!”

“Mum,” Kerr groans.

“I’m grounded!” Kenzie happily tells me. 

“Why are you grounded?” I ask as Door tries to shame Kerr on Basil’s earlier behavior. 

(Basil peed on Tom. I find this hilarious for many childish reasons.) 

“I broke a lamp.”

Since we have nothing valuable, due to the fact we’re likely training a football player or something, I assume she broke one of the Hiddleston’s lamps.

“You didn’t break the lamp his grandmother gave Tom, did you?”

She shrinks backwards. 

“I bet you’re supposed to be in your room!” I call out, heading for the master bedroom, which is just off the front reception hall. 

While Kerr and Door argue about what to do about Basil Bea II, I shower and change. By the time I’m done, Kerr is shouting he hates Door and stomps off to slam his bedroom door. I exit the master and head into the kitchen where Door is standing at the bar, her head hanging as she braces herself against the marble top. 

“Is it time to send him away yet?”

“September is nearing, soon he’ll be gone,” I assure. 

Kerr is attending Harrow. Door wasn’t too sure she wanted to send him away, but Kerr really wants to go (I think to get out of the house and away from us, but I try not to think that way). The only thing he seems to detest about his soon to be school is the fact they still wear straw hats. He hates hats. And it’s all Door’s fault for telling me, in front of him, I look horrid in hats. 

Kerr is a miniature me. Except with curlier hair and Door’s ski slope nose.

“Is there some school we can send the other one?” Door asks, pushing herself upright. She looks utterly spent. 

“I’m sure there is,” I say. “I believe we could send her off to Oxford. The Dragon School. Didn’t Tom go there?”

“Yes. Basil peed on Tom.”

“So, I heard.”

“Why did we get him a dog when he’s leaving?”

“Because I’m a push over,” I remind her, kissing her on the cheek as I pass by her to get to the fridge. “How are the Hiddlestons?”

“Peed upon and out a vase, a few light bulbs, and an antique lamp your daughter thinks she’s got enough money to replace.”

“I doubt she does,” I agree. 

Kensington Rose Cumberbatch never has pocket money. Mostly because she breaks things and we make her replace them. We lack nice things due to our daughter who has been on a rampage since she figured out how to crawl, but our friends all keep replacing their things with more expensive things for her to break.  

“I don’t think she’s recovered from paying off the Freemans,” Door remarks. 

“Lucky Martin gave her a payment plan.”

“At least she’ll never be like me. She’ll always know how to manage her money from a childhood of never buying anything because she’s always paying off someone famous.”

“She’s not paying them off. She’s paying for replacing something she broke. You’d think after eight years she’d learn.”

“Well, she’s grounded. And I’ve got the lamp here,” Door says, reaching under the counter and producing that infamous orange bag. 

“I thought Tom burned that bag,” I remark, walking to the counter with my apple. I take a bite as I open the bag and peak inside. I stare at the chunks of lamp and sigh. There is no way we’re putting that together again.  

“At least we know a great reproduction company,” Door tries to joke. 

“Yes, well, side affect of having such a destructive child. I’m sure I wasn’t this horrid,” I remark. 

“Yeah, you weren’t. I asked your mum. She didn’t have to cover the house in padding.”

We tried padding. It made no difference. We’ve gotten rid of anything breakable in the past seven years (or it died a painful, shattering death by Kensington Cumberbatch). And if it is breakable, it is somewhere Kenzie isn’t allowed to enter. Like our bedroom and the kitchen. We don’t eat in the eating area in the kitchen. It’s where we (meaning Kerr, Door, and myself) gather to watch telly together. 

“Where is the Peeing Menace?” I inquire.

“In her cage. She is a bad dog.”

“You realize Kerr’s let her out by now.”

“She’s also likely forgotten she marked Tom.”

“It’s just proof she’s really your dog. She marked Tom because she knows he’s your favorite actor,” I joke, giving her a cheeky smile on my way out of the kitchen.  

“You bet he is!” 

“That’s fine. Basil’s never peed on me!”

I chuckle as I head up the stairs to the floor that contains the media room (sans a television, as Kenzie would break it) and Kenzie’s bedroom. At the top of the stairs I see Kenzie peaking out from her room. She goes to shut the door, but I warn, “Kensington.”

She sighs.

“I hate my name.”

“It’s a lovely name.”

“It means brash woman,” Kenzie pouts. “It’s also a name of a burrow. A burrow, Dad.” 

“And is that why you feel the need to leave a wake of destruction behind?”

I push the door fully open and enter her room, which is a disaster zone. She has never been a neat child, but since we’ve given her run of an entire floor of the house, we’ve managed to contain her mess to her room. She takes pride in the fact she keeps the rest of the floor neat and tidy. (Mostly because there’s literally nothing else up here save her bedroom.) 

“Yes. It’s brash.”

“Do you know what brash means?”

Kenzie is quiet for a moment before, “No.”

“It doesn’t mean to leave a wake of broken vases, lamps, and other things behind.”

Kenzie sits down on what I assume is her bed and pouts some more. “How much?”

“Quite a bit.”

She sighs. “I’m not done finishing paying Mr Freeman.”

She refuses to call him Martin due to the fact she is terrified of him. (Hell, I was somewhat terrified of him after she broke the window.)

“Well, you will have to figure something out. Did you speak about payment plans with Tom?”

“No. I just said I could pay.”

“Well, maybe if you talk to your mum, she’ll pay for the replacement and then you can just pay her back.”

“She pays me!”

“Then she’ll dock your pay.”

Kenzie pouts. 

“You might have to clean this room,” I comment.

I’m not sure how Kenzie even manages to get pocket money as her room looks as if it was taken apart by burglars. (We have a maid who comes in once a month to do some light cleaning, but we mostly clean the flat ourselves. Or, well, Kerr, Kenzie, and I clean while Door kind of cleans in her half arsed manner.) 

“Will I get more?”

“You might if you do a good job,” I bargain. 

I feel bad. Kenzie never has any pocket money because she is always paying someone else for something expensive she broke on accident.  

“Okay.”

“Toilet too.”

“Gross.”

“I bet it is gross.”

“I hate loos.” 

“How long did Mum say you were grounded?”

“A week. Since it was a vase too. Though, that was Basil’s fault.”

“Isn’t everything?”

“Yes. I hate that dog.”

I roll my eyes. “Best get started on the room. Better now than later.”

Kenzie grumbles, but stands up to go get a bin bag from the hall closet. I wait till she gets it and then shut her up in her room. I head downstairs to find Door sprawled in the kitchen on the small love seat we crammed into the eating area, the telly on, and a wine glass in her hand.

“They’ve driven you to drinking?” I ask, falling down next to her on the sofa. 

“It’s cranberry juice,” Door replies. “Don’t drink. After fourteen years you’d think you’d remember that.”

“Eh,” I say flapping my hand at her. “Surely Tom won’t make her pay for the lamp.”

“No. Kenzie insisted.”

“Ah. Pride.”

“Yeah. Elise tried to get her out of it.”

“I see. What if I cover the last payment of the Freeman’s window?”

“No. She needs to learn not to break things when we take her out in public,” Door grouses. “I mean, we’ve been doing this for almost four years.”

“Longer.”

“No. We’ve only been making her pay since she was four. That was about the time she was capable of doing chores around the flat for me to pay her.” 

“Well, once Kerr is gone, we can give Basil’s care to her. Pay her for that.”

“Yeah.”

“Too bad she’s not into acting,” I sigh. 

“What do you mean not into acting? She always wants to be the center of attention. Have you ever played with your daughter? She’s always pretending, acting out elaborate stories…and she’s always the one making the loudest noise during school productions.”

“I meant interested in getting into it professionally.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s a bad idea.”

“She’d make more money.”

Door punches me in the arm. “She’s a child.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t have the attention span to be a professional,” Door tells me. 

While Kenzie loves being on the stage and being the center of attention, she really does have a short attention span. She’d never be able to work on a set at the moment. I have no doubt she’ll wind up an actor, once she can sit still for more than five minutes. 

“Why is Kerr home? I thought he was spending the day with Robby.”

“They had a fight. He decided since Robby lives near the Hiddlestons, he’d just walk on over instead of calling me to go get him,” Door tells me. 

“He is thirteen.”

“Yeah. I know when I was thirteen I walked to and from school alone, but these days kids can’t go anywhere alone.”

“It’s better than when they were little. Plus, it’s London. It wasn’t like he took the Tube or anything.”

“No. But he still didn’t tell me.”

“Ah, so he’s also in trouble.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ground him?”

“No. I took this,” Door says, producing Kerr’s mobile. 

“Oh, no. You didn’t.”

“I did.”

The thing is vibrating up a storm. Kerr is terribly popular. So much so, I hate his mobile because it never shuts up. He also hates to be parted with it, as he looses touch with reality. (According to Kerr.) And while it never shuts up, Kerr is pretty good about not being glued to it like some children. And loathe he is to be parted from it.

He must have really pissed Door off. 

“Did Basil really pee on Tom?”

“I told you he did,” Door says. “Just lifted her leg up and marked him like she was a boy dog.”

I snort. Door glances at me. I snort again. Door huffs out a laugh. I start laughing. Door joins in. 

God she’s gorgeous. Door stops laughing, takes in the look on my face, and smirks. 

“Come here, Mr Cumberbatch. I’ve not properly said hello to you,” she says in a sultery tone.

My god, I love this woman. 

I crawl closer to her and weave my fingers through her hair (god, I love this hair) and kiss her. Each time I kiss her it’s just like the first time we kissed, only so much better. 

“GROSS!”

Door and I break apart. Somehow, during our short kiss, I’ve crawled into her lap. We’re both still fully clothed (thankfully), but we are in a rather…precarious position for our son to find us in. 

“GET A ROOM!” 

The door to Kerr’s room slams shut again. Door and I look at one another, shrug, and go back to snogging.

* * *

THE END.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh. My. God.
> 
> I've finished this! (And posted it on the day it was announced Benedict Cumberbatch is engaged. I thought it fitting.) I'd like to thank all my faithful readers for all the kudos and comments. Check out my Tumblr (scotlandevander.tumblr.com) for random trivia on this work. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! It's been a blast.


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